


Time Long Past

by Dickbutt



Series: Dickbutt Writes Again [13]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Because Overwatch is literally built on the backs of SURPRISE! I'm not dead, Conspiracy Theories, Gen, Improbably Quick Coma Recovery, Other, Post-Fall of Overwatch, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Reader-Insert, Reports of My Death Were Greatly Exaggerated, Suspended Animation, medic reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-10-14 19:58:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10543506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dickbutt/pseuds/Dickbutt
Summary: Like the ghost of a dear friend deadIs Time long past.A tone which is now forever fled,A hope which is now forever past,A love so sweet it could not last,Was Time long past.





	1. Awake

**Author's Note:**

> Request originally posted at [Dickbutt Writes Again](http://dickbutt-writes-again.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.
> 
> Original Request: Bonjour! Hope you're having a good day today. Request: (Hope this makes sense) y/n used to be part of Overwatch. Being best friends with Jack and being Gabriel's lover (or vice-verse). You can imagine what a handful that was! But before the Fall of overwatch, Y/n had to go into a sort of suspended animation sleep. But many years later, they suddenly wake up when overwatch is being recalled. How does y/n react to meeting an older Jack. Or coming face to face with Reaper on the field.
> 
> ((Title and Summary from 'Time Long Past' by Percy Bysshe Shelley. It's like 80% less pretentious than the summary makes it seem I swear))

**2068 – OVERWATCH, ZÜRICH HEADQUARTERS**

“The Iceland labs have gone dark, sir.”

Jack stood slowly from his desk, eyes slowly narrowing as the words sunk in, sent the gears in his head turning.

“What do you mean they’ve gone dark?”

_Lab goes quiet, lights out, alarmed yelling, the first round of a firearm cracking into the darkness._

The unfortunate messenger shook their head plaintively under the Strike Commander’s scrutinizing stare. He offered up the data pad with a shaking hand. “All outgoing communications have stopped and any attempt to reach them doesn’t go through. A team went out to investigate, but – ”

“Why the hell wasn’t I notified sooner?” Jack brushed away the datapad, posture tense. “I should be the one approving these operations. Who gave clearance?”

They flinched, silently cursing their luck for drawing the short straw in being the one to deliver the report. With a tremulous voice, they continued to deliver word, and watched as the Strike Commander grew visibly more irate the more he spoke.

_Gunshots echoing, the screams of your coworkers, smoke fills the room, dark-toned radio chatter too muffled to pick out. An attack._

“Three days?!”

“Y-yes, sir. We wanted to hold off on – ”

But Jack was already storming from the office, the unfortunate agent hot on his heels.

“You should have notified me immediately. This is a serious breach of security, as well as an endangerment of our people.”

Even as the agent babbled on a list of excuses and apologies, Jack’s thoughts receded into somewhere darker, even against his best attempts. He didn’t want to think of you, having headed out to the labs two weeks ago to perfect your prototype.

_Pain. Hot, sharp, blooming from your gut, crawl to the back of the lab, escape, escape! Call Overwatch! Call for –_

The agent stopped them just short of the elevator, and as much as Jack wanted to snap at him, he maintained an air of professionalism and waited until they were able to pass on whatever news they’d been updated with. His heart dropped at their morose expression.

“The team reached the lab.” They swallowed, unable to meet the Strike Commander’s eyes. “…It was Talon, sir. There are… no survivors…”

 _Hand meets glass, hiss of a hatch, perfect hiding spot, assistants dying, have to survive, get help, get home._

“Sir?”

But Jack was already gone, mind running through everything that needed done, in spite of his heavy heart. Families to notify, funerals to plan, official statements, oh God, how would he even be able to look your family in the eye?

_Cold mist, creeping, the slowing numbness of  injuries, drifting off._

…Oh God, how was he going to tell Gabriel?

 _Wake up, wake up soon, call Overwatch, get help, don’t find me, don’t find me – Please, find me…_ ****

* * *

 

**D e p r e s s u r i z i n g**

A ragged gasp tore through your throat as you stumbled forward out of the pod and into the darkened lab; remnant mist and dying nanites floated from the machine behind you. The glass of the pod window still had a streak of blood smeared across it – whether the inside or outside, you couldn’t remember without investigating, and you found your legs unwilling to cooperate to let you stand. You coughed, feeling your lungs fight the dust motes that near choked the air. Every part of your body ached with disuse, though thankfully, nothing else appeared out of sorts on your person.

How long had you been in there? There was no way to immediately tell, as the readout had begun to glitch the moment you tried to access it; you needed to find your datapad or get to a computer. Judging by the silence, the attack was clearly over, and you dreaded to find out exactly how many of your assistants had turned up dead. You went over your gradually increasing mental checklist: The date, the pod, your team, call headquarters, go home.

Though they all required the prerequisite of you getting your legs to work. In due time.

There was a crunch of glass underfoot and your head shot up, looking around for sign of the potential assailant; someone had stayed behind, probably to look for stragglers. You fumbled for your sidearm before you remembered you were still unarmed from when you’d been forced into the pod. You glanced back at the still-open chamber, tempted to hide in there, but remembered how well it went last time and settled for crawling over to and curling up behind a nearby shelf.

Your breath came in quick, shallow inhales, and you nearly choked in trying to suppress a dust-triggered cough. Eyes darting around what you could see of the lab, you looked for anything that could help you – a weapon, a communicator, _anything._ As your eyes adjusted, through the shelf you could see a tall figure pacing around on the other side of the room, definitely armed with a fairly hefty weapon. You cursed your luck and took a moment to gauge whether or not your legs would work.

You managed a crouch before you started moving. It would be too risky to attempt standing – or running – as your baby deer-like fumblings would attract the attention of whoever was making a sweep of your lab. You kept your back to the shelving and tables, sidling along, all the while keeping an eye out for anything of use. As it was, the lab looked thoroughly raided and abandoned, most small equipment was missing or destroyed – including the computers – and everything was coated in a fairly thick layer of dust, mostly undisturbed. Beyond scattered papers, there was little sign of a struggle; there weren’t even any bodies. Your hand slid to your stomach, to your blood-stained clothing, and where barely a scar remained underneath.

…How long had you been in there…?

There came another crunch of glass and you stiffened up, eyes darting again to absolutely _anything_ you could take in hand. Underneath an adjacent desk you spied a screwdriver, and you chanced a look around before you dove for it with an unintended clatter. You held your breath, screwdriver clenched in shaking hands as you attempted to scramble backwards, but found it difficult with your stubborn legs. The footsteps abruptly stopped and then changed direction, drawing nearer. You clutched the screwdriver desperately.

_Survive. Escape. Call Overwatch. Go home._

You held yourself as ready as you could, legs willing, and waited to strike the ever-approaching shadow. You were, instead, startled by a bright red light.

“Stand down!”

The gruff, slightly-modified voice caused you to drop your makeshift weapon and you yelled, squeezing your eyes shut. Your hands flew out reflexively – ineffectually – to slow or stop whatever shot or blow was going to come. It never did, and your eyes cracked open hesitantly.

The harsh red of your assailant’s light cut across your vision and you flinched, covering your eyes. The light dimmed somewhat and you were able to squint up, not at a face, but at an impassive visor; the source of the red light. The figure squared up, masculine in shape, and lowered their large rifle as you cowered on the ground. The screwdriver was still within reach if you could just –

The visored face moved up and down minutely, in an almost appraising motion.

“…What are you doing here?”

“I-I could ask the same.”

Your immediate response snapped out and you flinched at the sound of your own voice, hoarse and croaky and borderline painful, your throat suddenly drier than it had been minutes prior. Your hand flew to your throat, and you glanced down, unable to bring yourself to speak again. The visor was no longer focused on you, instead on a point somewhere over your shoulder in the distance. Eventually, the gaze fell back to your crumpled form, shaking, but somehow unafraid.

The figure jerked his shoulder back, hefted his rifle in a less-threatening manner.

“Let’s get you out of here.” His gaze remained on you, still motionless on the floor. “…Can you stand?”

You tried to reply in the negative, but only a pathetic, wordless sound could worm its way from your throat. He made a noncommittal grunt and holstered his weapon before he crouched down to help you to your feet. You swayed, completely unsteady, but his grip didn’t falter and you were kept upright. One step at a time, he walked you from the lab. You turned, glanced over your shoulder at your now-abandoned prototype.

You had hoped – secretly – for the brief moments it was plausible, that it was a rescue. That Overwatch had sent somebody to investigate, or retrieve survivors but… The lab was long abandoned; whatever struggle had taken place had long since passed and you were left behind. What had _happened_? Why _now?_ Where was Overwatch?  

You tried to raise your voice to question this, but you couldn’t form the words right, could hardly get anything but a squeak past your throat. Your ‘rescuer’ scarcely glanced your way, but was seemingly patient – or pleased – with your inability to speak as he guided you out of the underground. At last, you managed to voice the single thing that had plagued you the entire time.

“What… year is it?” you croaked.

He eyed you up and down again, silent for a long moment. “2076,” he eventually ground out.

You clenched your jaw, eyes unwilling to move from a bloodstained spot on the floor, even as your vision swam.

_Oh._

 

* * *

 

Soldier: 76, as he called himself, was not a spectacular conversationalist; his replies to your few questions were terse and deflective, telling nothing, and he spoke little more than necessary otherwise.

This suited you fine – you hardly made for pleasant company either, still shell-shocked from the fact that nearly a decade of your life was _gone_.

The better part of your introductory hours were spent with you desperately trying to come to terms with the idea, while Soldier fought to keep your moving and keep the both of you alive. Your legs grew stronger as you walked, but more often than not, you had to lean on him for support.

Eventually, you were brought to a shitty roadside motel, to a room that he’d likely rented ahead of time. It raised more questions than answers, but you hadn’t been subjected to anything awful so far (and he was hardly forthcoming), so you stored them for a later time. Upon entry, you immediately went to seat yourself at the nearest available surface – a table by the door. A TV droned on at a low volume, providing the only sound in the room. Soldier lingered by the door, eventually turning to head out again.

“I’ll be back soon,” was all he offered, and then you were by yourself again.

You sat alone for what could have been hours, given your awareness of the world around you, mind turning, but going nowhere. Almost eight years had passed with you trapped in that tiny pod, your coworkers and assistants dead and dying around you, the world moving forward. What did Talon want? Information – data – your research? Why didn’t they finish you off, did they think you’d die on your own? Why didn’t Overwatch come looking for you? You didn’t understand, you didn’t understand _anything_ and –

A plastic bag full of takeout hit the table in front of you and you jumped, startled out of your thoughts. Soldier’s visor was focused on you, though you couldn’t exactly be sure if he was even looking _at_ you.

“…Thought you might be hungry.”

You weren’t, not really, but it was thoughtful, you supposed, and you thanked him anyway, peeking through the bag to see what he had brought. He sat opposite you and made no move for the food, which you questioned almost immediately.

“…I’ll eat later,” he asserted, arms crossed.

You eyed him suspiciously, briefly worried that he’d poisoned the food, but why would he have gone through all the trouble of dragging you from your lab if he was just going to kill you later. You ate in silence, prickling under Soldier’s faceless gaze. Though you felt a little better with some food in you, you ate little, due to a persistent nausea. It was a projected side-effect of the stasis, after all, the fact that it was never intended for long term use notwithstanding.

You picked at your food, eyes distant, and your thoughts started to wander again. In the middle of nowhere with a stranger, the world undoubtedly changed – why hadn’t Overwatch found you? Why? Did they even know? What about Gabriel, what about Ja –

“…You alright?” he asked, in what had to be the most obviously poor question to ask in a situation where the person sitting across from you looked about five seconds from falling apart.

“Someone has to be looking for me…” You murmured, unable to look up from the table for more than a moment, usually just to look at your ‘companion’. You laughed nervously, gave a forced smile with too much teeth. “…I’m not supposed to tell anyone this, but I work for Overwatch, you know. Surely, we could contact – “

“You might need to look into a new job, then.” He gave a dry, humorless laugh, gruff in his usual way. “Overwatch got disbanded _years_ ago.”

The news stung like a physical blow, but resolutely, you managed not to immediately break down sobbing. Regardless, stray tears welled up at the corners of your eyes. Your body drooped, your head eventually coming down to thump softly on the tabletop. The quick inhale you gave was sharp and wet and signaled oncoming sobs. The man across from you shifted uncomfortably. For half a second, you wondered if he’d be dumb enough to ask if you were okay again.

“What happened…?” you whispered, pressing your cheek to the table’s surface.

He cleared his throat, leaned back like he was making to move from the table. “Don’t know if you can handle the answer to that, given your state.”

Your head snapped up. “I think I’m a better judge of what I can or cannot handle!”

He sighed, ran a gloved hand through scruffy, white hair. “…Well, then, let’s say that I’m not _ready_ to answer it for you.”

He sighed again, a deep, almost broken sound, and stood from the table. You slouched in your chair, eyes closed, mind tired but reeling. You jumped at his hand on your shoulder, which he withdrew almost immediately at your reaction.

“You should get some sleep, if you can. We’ll try and head out in the morning, if you’re up to it.”

The last thing you wanted to do was _sleep_ , but you acquiesced, somehow knowing he would wind up pushing the issue if you refused. The sheets were scratchy, as cheap motel sheets were wont to be, but it was by and far more comfortable than you had likely been in a while, and you almost immediately felt your eyelids grow heavy. The lights flicked off but for the glow of the television, and you could still make out the silhouette of Soldier by the door, probably going to head out again.

The thought lingered at the back of your mind – you had to know. You spoke up, right before he headed out the door, voice scarcely louder than a murmur, shaking with nerves.

“…Are _you_ former Overwatch?”

He snorted derisively , looked away from you at something you couldn’t see across the room. “…Could say that.”

It was all he offered. The door opened and clicked shut. Curled tightly on your side, you drifted off with the thought that you’d demand more satisfying answers come the morning. You slept fitfully, between visions of your lab crew being slaughtered from behind a pane of glass, to the sound of familiar voices calling for you in the dark.


	2. The Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For all you thought you’d be prepared to see, you were still stunned into silence at seeing how the years had changed your friends – and likewise, they were stunned by you.

**2068 – Z** **ÜRICH**

“And you can’t work on it here?”

You rolled your eyes, but chuckled fondly, as Gabriel watched you pace back and forth across the room, packing. You threw a shirt at his head which he caught and threw back at you. Eventually, he pushed off from the doorway and walked over to you as you folded the aforementioned shirt. His arms wrapped around your midsection and he leaned in to press his face against yours, causing you to shy away from his kisses so you could focus on organizing your belongings.

“Our labs here are good, but the one in Iceland is more specially designed for this particular work.” You turned in his arms, tapping your finger to his nose. “And I’ll be able to avoid being underfoot that way.”

“You’re sure you couldn’t have picked one closer?”

At the end of his murmurings, he attempted another kiss – or several – sending you into an unabashed peal of laughter as you tried to fight off his affections. He laughed too, even as his face smooshed directly into the palm of your hand.

“C’mon, you sap, I have a 9:30 flight!”

“Mmh, well maybe you shouldn’t have put off packing until the day of, sweetheart.”

You finally gave in to his wordless demand and pressed close for a deep kiss, your hands at his jaw, thumbs stroking the scars on his cheeks. You continued gently touching his face, even after he pulled away, his eyes taking you in like it was the last time he’d see you. You leaned in to kiss him again, your hands smoothing down to his shoulders, which you squeezed.

“It’s only a month, Gabe.”

“I know.”

“And I’m going to be in contact the entire time.”

“I know.”

“And you’re lucky we’re alone right now, because who knows how much shit you’d get from your men for this sad, moony act.”

At that, he laughed, lowered his eyes, and finally let go of you, though his hands hovered, lingering, like he wanted to grab you again. He watched you finish packing mostly in silence, and when you hefted your bags, it took everything he had to not grab you again. He sighed, lips upturned in a fond smile.

“I’ll see you soon, _cari_ _ño_.”

 

* * *

 

“I may not have been entirely honest with you,” he said, once you’d started down the road in earnest.

Slumped against the passenger door of a car that very much seemed like it could have been stolen, you gave a hum to indicate that you were listening, but did not respond much otherwise. From the nightmares and laying awake between them, you hardly got any sleep, and that, combined with the information of the prior day, had taken all the fight from you. He probably could have told you he was a Talon agent sent to finish the job and you wouldn’t have much of a reaction. Despite your near-silence, he continued.

“Overwatch as you knew it no longer exists,” he intoned, gripped a little harder on the steering wheel. “…But there’s been a Recall. Someone’s trying to get all the former agents together. Those who are around to answer, at least. Those who care enough to want to.”

This, surprisingly, got your attention. He had told you a little as you prepared for travel, mostly due to your demands, of the fall from favor Overwatch experienced, the deeds of Blackwatch coming to light, and the Petras Act after the eventual disbanding of the organization. But it felt like there were pieces of the story missing, things that he was purposely omitting, though you weren’t sure that pressing for information would get anything out of him. You drummed your fingers on the inside of the door.

“So what about Overwatch being illegal?”

“Doubt they care.” A single car passed by in the opposite lane on the otherwise desolate road. “But I’m sure they’re operating on a similar thread – looking for answers.” He made a quiet, noncommittal sound. “Figure you wouldn’t appreciate me dragging you cross-continent, so maybe they could help you out, at least. Get you… settled.”

You snorted, sitting up to fix him with a dry glare. “So you just _assume_ I’m going to go along with this Recall, even after – ?”

Your voice abruptly died in your throat, cutting off the sentence before you could say _after they abandoned me_. You didn’t know. You didn’t know _anything_ , no thanks even to the man sitting opposite you. And maybe Soldier was right, that you could get your answers from whoever had turned up for the Recall. Maybe you’d find Jack and Gabe too, give them a piece of your mind, if they weren’t rotting in a UN prison somewhere. The sudden thought soured your already agitated stomach.

“Do you have anywhere else to go?”

You swallowed, mind turning. You tried to think of anything –anywhere – but _eight years_ kept driving to the forefront of your mind. Whatever family you still had no doubt assumed you were long since dead, and the only friends you’d had were in Overwatch. You’d given the organization your _life._ And then _eight years_ …

Your head hit the window again, and you idly watched the scenery pass by, caught your own gaze in the side mirror. “…No. I don’t.”

He grunted, shifted his grip on the wheel again, more a tic it seemed, than anything.

“Then Gibraltar it is.”

One very suspect plane ride and two more stolen cars later, the both of you had made it into Spain, and you had finally grown weary of your reticent companion. His continued refusal to be forthcoming with any information on Overwatch he might have had left you borderline furious, but as it stood, your life literally rested in his hands, and you weren’t about to alienate yourself from the only person around who had any simple chances of getting your answers, even if they had to come from someone else. (You weren’t necessarily looking forward to parting ways with the only semblance of a familiar thing you had – but you certainly wouldn’t mourn the separation.)

Though you had to be stealthy to get into the region of Gibraltar proper, the Watchpoint on the Rock was somewhere you had been several times in the past. (And you wondered, distantly, how that had changed as well.) What should have risen your alarms was that Soldier was given full clearance into the Watchpoint with no question, even with you in tow. Times must have changed enough to where a full security screening was no longer required – or perhaps, chillingly enough, that there were so few who remained that nobody cared.

The base was like a ghost town, nothing at all how you remembered it but for the façade. Remnants of occupation lingered, remnants of a life long gone, and you worried, briefly, that maybe Soldier: 76 had lied, and there was no Recall, and that the one truth that remained was that there was no Overwatch.

The thought stuck in your head even as you walked past the old Comm. Tower, then up a flight of stairs, where a soft, familiar, artificial voice intoned: “Welcome back, Soldier 76.”

Your eyes narrowed, another seed of suspicion planted in your mind alongside the brief thrill of hearing Athena again.

The approaching sound of footsteps – an unusual gait – rounded the corner, matching perfectly with the hunched form of Winston, who surprisingly perked at the sight of your silent keeper, passing momentarily over you.

“Oh, 76, we were wondering when – “

He stopped suddenly, having fully laid eyes on you. Surprise colored your features, and he mirrored the expression, the gorilla’s jaw hanging slack. He brought a large hand up to adjust his glasses. After apparently confirming the reality that stood before him, his gaze drifted to the Soldier beside you and he cleared his throat.

“76?”

The man sighed, weariness evident in his posture. “Yeah. I should have… been more clear about what I’d found. …Or _who_ , rather.”

Mouth set in a tight line, Winston moved aside so Soldier could usher you into the room, a hand on your back to keep you moving forward. You were sitting before you realized, at a cluttered worktable; you felt your legs shaking afterward, while you watched Soldier and Winston cross to a corner of the lab, speaking in hushed tones.

“ – about this, you know – ”

“ – supposed to do? Leave them to – ”

Eventually, they made their way back, Winston visibly agitated, but he regarded you with a soft expression. The Soldier stood impassively at your back, and carefully rested a gloved hand on your shoulder.

Winston huffed, nostrils flared. “…I’ll call the meeting.”

 

* * *

 

For all you thought you’d be prepared to see, you were still stunned into silence at seeing how the years had changed your friends – and likewise, they were stunned by you. Torbjörn had to double-take and Reinhardt looked away, features pinched, likely trying to hold his emotions back – which he had always been horrible at (though a younger woman you did not know stood at his side, comforting him quietly).

Angela was the hardest. Your former student’s face crumpled into tears the moment she saw you, hands clasped over her mouth to press back the startled sounds. You stood slowly, leaning against the table to account for your still-shaking legs; the woman took the opportunity to practically lunge at you, her arms squeezing around your shoulders as though clinging for dear life would keep you from disappearing again. The sobs wracking her form moved you to your own tears; unchanged as she was like yourself, she was still a far cry from the young girl you had taken under your wing in Zürich.

Once the tears had dried and everyone had managed to take a spot in the cramped lab space – Soldier to your right, Angela to your left, holding your hand – you quietly realized that this handful was the remainder that Soldier spoke of. You bit your lip, not wanting to voice your despondence, but Winston seemed to notice.

The rest, he explained, were on an escort mission with a couple of potential recruits – names that flew right over your head without recognition – and that you would no doubt see them again when they returned. Those were the names you _did_ recognize, McCree, Oxton, Shimada, Amari – though you were surprised to hear that it was Fareeha out in the field, for how against following her footsteps her mother had been.

“How is Ana, after all this?” you asked.

That was where everything spiraled downward.

Your question was met with a sea of tense faces; Angela’s hand gripped yours tighter, her fingertips stroking the back of it soothingly. A shock of unease rippled down your back.

“Ana,” she began, suspiciously soft, “was killed in action shortly after you disappeared.”

Your heart stuttered and you stared straight forward at nothing. You squeezed Angela’s hand so tightly you could see her wince from the corner of your eye. Tears rolled unimpeded down your face as your breathing grew erratic. You inhaled sharply.

“Okay.” Another breath rattled through your chest; you physically fought for your tremors to cease. “…Okay.”

The faces of your companions remained sympathetic – pitying, almost. Quietly – but with quick determination – you asked softly: _“Who else?”_

The table remained quiet; your heart thumped against your ribcage, aching, anxious, as they all looked to one another, as though deciding who should speak. The fear of pending _hurt_ that arose within you almost had you backtracking, _‘No, I decided I don’t want to know.’_ Winston grimaced and exhaled slowly, his large hands laced on the tabletop.

“Tell me, what _do_ you know?”

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, the tone of his voice sending more little skitters of paranoia through you as you organized your thoughts. You exhaled slowly, summarizing what you’d been told over the time since you’d woken up.

“Overwatch was disbanded six years ago after they fell from public favor. There was a series of investigations, during which Blackwatch became public knowledge and the whole organization became subject to a UN committee.” You pursed your lips, speech slowing as you realized – not for the first time – that something wasn’t quite adding up. “The Petras Act was put into place to prevent any Overwatch activity in the future.”

Winston’s brow furrowed as you looked to Soldier for clarification – understanding. If it were possible to look guilty through a mask, he would have been the man to manage it; as it were, his shoulders tense, then hunched, and from that alone, you could confirm his deception. Your fists clenched under the table, nails biting into your palms.

“Then what am I missing?” you ground out. “What is it that I should know?”

Winston folded his hands against the tabletop and sighed, his glasses just barely slipping down his face. He met your gaze with a heavy expression.

“The investigations were a key point in the fall of Overwatch, yes, but… The killing blow, which precluded the implementation of the Petras Act, was the, uh, destruction of the Swiss Headquarters.”

Your expression fell blank. “…What?”

“Tensions had been building between Reyes and Strike Commander Morrison for some time, after…” He cleared his throat, but you already knew what he hesitated to say. It sank into your gut like a cold rock. You admired his professionalism. “The unrest was metaphorically tearing the organization in two – then, literally. There was a, uh, fight in the Zürich base and…”

He sighed softly, unable to deliver the heavy news. No – not news; it had happened years ago, and you were only catching up. You jaw trembled, a quiet broken sound slipping out despite your best efforts to hold it in. Mouths opened to comfort you, but another sound, high in pitch and tenuous, prevented the words.

“That doesn’t…” Your laugh was more a cough; a short, watery thing. “They were best friends, why would they…?”

Angela’s hand crept toward her mouth. Your shoulders shook with your hiccupping laughter, tears streaking down your face as they grew in intensity. The others began to stand from the table, slowly, palms spread, so as to not agitate you, as though you weren’t already deep into hysterics. You covered your own mouth as the sounds grew louder, eventually turning into screams as you folded in on yourself.

You didn’t know how long it went on for.

You came back to yourself with your face pressed to the table’s surface and your throat on fire. Soft speech filtered in and out, indecipherable, as your mind continued ruminating over the deaths of loved ones you hadn’t even been there for. Physical sensation came back to you in the form of a hand stroking gently over your upper back; it made your skin crawl.

“It’s been… It’s been a trying time for them, I’m sure -”

You wanted to flinch away from the hand at your back, the very sensation of human touch revolting to you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move beyond your involuntary tremors.

“- and let them get some rest.”

Hallways passed, footsteps echoing within, Angela’s soft voice in your ear throughout. The room was small, simple, like you remembered the old recruit barracks being, but obviously repurposed; an old orbital launch station likely didn’t have much designated dormitory space (and even if it did, it wouldn’t have been singles). She asked after your comfort, guaranteed you a space at the Watchpoint, anything you might need in the days to come – Soldier 76 remained a specter in the doorway, silent, watching.

Before she left, she squeezed your shoulders a final time. “Are you sure you’re going to be alright?”

You only nodded, and she left, accepting, but not content with your answer.

(You were growing awfully tired of that question.)

You slept immediately, and dreamt nothing.

 

* * *

 

You were shaken awake in the middle of the night; you shot straight up – almost screamed – were it not for the familiar line of red cutting through the darkness. Your eyes began to adjust, the room cast in an eerie glow from his visor. Bitter anger rose up in your throat, but whatever words you had prepared to force out, he held his hand up to stop you.

“I need to talk to you.”

You glanced to the glowing clock. 3:43 AM. You groaned into your hand as you scrubbed it over your face. “It couldn’t have waited?”

“The longer I’d let it fester…” He sighed – guilty. “The worse I would feel.”

Your eyes narrowed, the fog of sleep burned away by a rapidly heating irritation. “I’m assuming this is about what you hid from me.”

The bitter tone in your voice went unmasked, and to his credit, he faced you unflinching – as far as you could tell through the mask, at least.

“You’re right.” He stepped toward the door, gesturing over his shoulder. “Walk with me.”

As much as you didn’t want to, your ravaged emotions demanded satisfaction, and you followed in his shadow. Down corridors you turned, and eventually you found yourself outside, on the walkways of the old launch zone. The Watchpoint was quiet in the moonlight, the air still but for the song of insects. The air remained muggy, even in the cool shade of night, no doubt from the breeze off the ocean.

You inhaled deeply, tempered by the walk, but still simmering. You stepped toward the rail, hands gripping it tightly as you stared out toward the ocean. You didn’t deign to look at him.  

“Alright. You wanted to talk,” you grumbled, “so. Talk.”

Soldier shifted uncomfortably at your back, but quietly stepped up to the rail to stand beside you. Silence stretched between you, like he was hesitating; you found yourself tempted to leave and wander your way back to the room, still irritated at being abruptly awoken (on top of everything else). You were beyond exhausted of being yanked around.

“ _Well_?”

“I never, _never_ , wanted to lie to you.” He straightened his back, the line of his shoulders firm, like he was facing down a threat. “If…” He cleared his throat. “… _That_ I omitted certain details, it was only to protect you.”

“Protect me?” You scoffed, dismissive.“And what do _you_ care?”

“I care more than you know…”

Before you could ask him what the hell he meant by that, he took a step back from you, and you followed with your eyes. His hands came up to the sides of the visor, fingertips pressing into a previously-unseen latching mechanism, which hissed as it came out of place. You watched, tight lipped, pulse hammering. He pried away the mask, and there stood Jack Morrison – older, scarred, but undoubtedly him. His brow was heavy, and his bright blue eyes shone with guilt as he gripped the visor in his hands tightly. Your mouth hung open, jaw trembling in both shock and fury, soundless words forming on your lips but dying away. He turned away from you, leaning heavily against the railing. He cleared his throat, and his voice was almost soft without the filter of his mask.

“…I’m sorry. I really am.”

Your head shook minutely, the poor apology falling dreadfully short; you grew so tired of ‘sorries.’

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you whispered hoarsely. “We could have saved so much time.”

“After the things I’ve seen… I had to be sure it was you. I had no idea what sort of condition you would be in when you woke up, or if anything had been done to you. If you’d… even remember what had happened.” He grimaced, the scars on his face pulled tight as he looked down over the walkway. “Could’ve been some trap, or… I don’t know. I just… After all this time, I never thought I’d see you again…”

“I thought…” You thought back to waking up, the hiss of your prison’s hatch finally releasing. You’d assumed, for days, that the manual override had been accessed. “In Iceland, you didn’t… ?”

“I was searching the lab for information. Leftover data, evidence from the attack, and…” He exhaled slowly, like he was in pain. “And then I found _you_. And everything…”  He stopped abruptly, cutting off whatever thought he’d had. “We had to head back. I had to bring you back.”

The sudden tightness of your chest almost stole your breath.

“So you finding me was an _accident?_ ”

The implication made you dizzy, the sudden frightful thought of dying alone, unaware, in that tomb of a lab… Your breathing came more quickly.

“Sweetheart, I thought you were _dead_. We all did.” He swallowed thickly, looked away from your piercing gaze, already bristling at the endearment. “Gabriel did. He…”

At the sound of his name, the pain sprung afresh in your chest and you choked on another tearless sob, having already cried yourself dry. The barest brush of his fingertips on your shoulder had you flinching away, and he too pulled back with a start. He bit out another apology but you shook your head, rode out the tremors and eventually found your voice again, ragged and weak.

“I was right _there,_ Jack. Nobody came looking?”

“You weren’t the only one,” he strained out, but offered nothing else. He shook his head, looking very much like he was losing a fight.

Your brow furrowed, confusion taking precedent over hurt. “Jack, what are you talking about?”

“Conspiracies.” You only looked to him for elaboration and he stumbled to continue. “Double agents, unsanctioned investigations, falsified evidence, searches and research we were barred from conducting ourselves. And that’s just scratching the surface of things…”

“Was it Talon?”

“Could have been. Don’t know.” He seemed to deflate, shook his head again. “All I’m certain of is that someone aimed to bring down Overwatch from the inside out. And they succeeded. Now, all I want’s the truth.” He exhaled, squared his shoulders. “Will you help me?”

_What choice do I have?_ you wanted to ask, upset and bitter as you were. But you looked again, at the crease of his brow, the weary glaze to his eyes. Though the years had changed him, this was your best friend, the man who you had never before turned your back on. You squeezed your eyes shut.

“Jack, you’re going to have to _trust_ me, if I’m supposed to help you.” He looked appropriately ashamed. “No more secrets – no more lies.”

He gave you a solemn nod. You tentatively placed a hand on his arm and squeezed and his entire posture relaxed.

“We’ll get to the bottom of things, _together_.” You sighed, almost wistful, heart aching. “For Gabe.”

You missed the way he tensed, missed the barely-there tremor to his hand as he placed it over yours.

“…For Gabe.”


End file.
